


Due Diligence

by olive2read



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, Podfic Available, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Spoilers for Ep 22 & 23, but has he done his due diligence?, he just wants to be good for Jon, this is why he needs his own recording device, what's he doing in Jon's office without trousers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive2read/pseuds/olive2read
Summary: "Martin? Good lord man, if you're going to be staying in the Archives, at least have the decency to put some trousers on.""Oh God, sorry! Sorry, I didn't think you were in until later. It's not even seven yet."...Jon discovers just what Martin is doing in his office, without trousers





	Due Diligence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nervouscupcakeinspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervouscupcakeinspace/gifts).

> Listening to TMA, that scene where Martin bursts into Jon's office without trousers in Episode 23 got me thinking and, well, this is the result. I blame cupcake (with love).
> 
> **READ THE TAGS** (and not just the cutesy non-wrangled ones)
> 
> * * *

Martin knows it’s a bad idea. He’d probably be sacked if Jon ever found out and part of him wonders if that’s what he wants. If he wants to get caught, and then sacked; if maybe then he’d be free to live his life without being haunted by any of the things he’s learned through the Institute.

It’s not that he doesn’t care about his job. Unfortunately, he _does_ care, far too much. Maybe not about the job, per se, not anymore, but about Jon, about how Jon sees him. Though, really, if he’s being honest, it’s unlikely that anything he could do would make Jon like him any _less_ at this point. Martin is fairly certain he’s perpetually teetering on the brink of being sacked.

He wonders, sometimes, in his more melancholy moments, how someone like bloody Tim Stoker, who Martin secretly believes is actively _trying_ to get fired, who swans about in snarky graphic tees completely against Institute policy, could be higher in Jon’s esteem than Martin. He works _so_ hard, and some of this stuff isn’t exactly easy or straightforward to follow up on, and yet he’s constantly being called on the carpet for things that are entirely out of his control. 

Some nights he wakes in a sweat from dreams where Jon is berating him about due diligence and it takes ages to get his heart rate under control again.

Since he started sleeping at the Archives, however, a different sort of dreams about Jon have been troubling him.

There was something in Jon’s voice that day, when he’d told Martin he could stay, something almost ... Martin hesitates to call it _caring_, he’s not even sure what caring would look like from someone like Jon, but there had been something, something that gave Martin the smallest sliver of hope that maybe Jon didn’t wholeheartedly despise him. Something that took the dying embers of his secret crush and stoked them into open flames.

That first night, he’d lain on the bed, the same bed where Jon had slept, and fidgeted for hours, replaying that scene over and over again in his head. The intensity of Jon’s look, the way he’d had an answer for every one of Martin’s concerns - from requesting extra security to the seals in place for humidity control - and Martin couldn’t stop thinking about it. There had even been a moment, just the briefest second, when Jon’s hand had awkwardly come down on Martin’s shoulder and squeezed. Jon had taken his hand away immediately, as though burned, then mentioned that he’d follow up with Elias, before briskly ushering Martin out of the office.

Martin knows that Jon doesn’t do physical touch, he avoids it whenever possible, and his stupid heart had fixated on that shoulder squeeze as though it represented so much more than a supervisor fumbling to do what was expected for a subordinate.

Finally, he’d gotten out of bed and padded, dressed only in his boxers and socks, over to Jon’s office. He feels safest in here, despite all of Jon’s reassurances about the bedroom. This room is so thoroughly Jon’s domain. The rest of the Archives, apart from the staff room, are just stacks upon stacks of paper arranged haphazardly, but not in here. Jon is working to get the entire place organised, a task that will no doubt take years, but he insisted that his office be the first place to be brought to order. 

Nothing is ever out of place in here and something about that soothes the frenetic ramblings of Martin’s mind. He curls up in Jon’s chair and inhales deeply, appreciating the spicy smokiness of Jon’s scent, not to mention the utter lack of the smell of old paper. 

When Martin had first started working at the Archives, before paper dust had coated his every surface and invaded his every crevice, he’d loved the smell of paper. Now that he can’t ever seem to be rid of it, he marvels at the fact that, though Jon handles just as much paper as the rest of them in his quest to catalogue everything, he’s managed to keep the pervasive stench out of his office.

Here Martin’s fear, his racing thoughts, his anxiety spirals about parasitic worms and other creatures that might come to haunt him, are muffled and distant. He takes another deep breath of Jon’s scent, sitting in Jon’s chair and reveling in the sense of being surrounded by him, and, as he always does when he sits here, he feels himself growing hard. 

He knows he should ignore it, not just his erection but this crush on Jon, this impossible desire that will never be fulfilled. He thinks back to his most recent dream of Jon, of Jon’s mouth hot on his cock, of Jon teasing him mercilessly with fingers and tongue, demanding that he earn his orgasm, and oh God. He wants so desperately to be good for Jon.

His hand slides into his boxers and wraps around his now straining cock. He pictures himself sitting not in Jon’s chair, but in his lap. Imagines the press of Jon’s own cock, hard and demanding, against his ass. Imagines that it isn’t his own hand stroking but Jon’s, a little bit cruel, like Jon himself, squeezing a little too tightly, pulling a little too hard, making him gasp and whine and beg. Jon’s breath, hot on his neck, whispering in his ear all the filthy things he’s going to do to Martin.

His orgasm bursts out of him, along with Jon’s name, come spattering across the big desk. It’s a good thing Jon keeps everything so neat or Martin would never be able to remove all traces of his transgression. Knowing that Jon will sit here tomorrow, will touch these same surfaces that Martin has touched, gives him an extra thrill.

He’d known it was a bad idea that first night and he’s known it’s a bad idea every night since but it seems to be the only way he can get to sleep. He pads back down the hall and collapses into Jon’s bed, wishing it smelled of him the way the chair does, and drifts to sleep.

* * *

The next night, he’s heading down the hall when he sees a light under Jon’s door. He pauses just outside, straining to hear, and, sure enough, Jon is in there dictating statements. Martin can feel a flush creeping up his entire body and hurries back to the bedroom. He lies awake for hours that night, sleep elusive even though he wanks (twice).

* * *

After two more sleepless nights, with Jon staying later and later in the office, Martin realises he’s going to have to change his tactics if he’s going to get any sleep. He requests a change to his working hours, stuttering to Jon’s raised eyebrow that since he isn’t leaving the Archives these days he can work whenever, that he doesn’t need to maintain the same hours. Jon shrugs, rolls his eyes, reminds him that he’s not been approved for any overtime. Martin can’t quite hear what Jon mutters under his breath but it sounds like ‘especially since you’re not exactly productive during regular hours.’ He grits his teeth as Jon dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

He throws himself even harder into his work, determined to show Jon that he isn’t a waste of resources. He works overtime and doesn’t claim it. His new schedule has him starting around 8:00 pm, so he can keep an eye on just how late Jon is working, and clocking out around 5:00 am. When he clocks out he showers, pulls on his boxers, and heads in to Jon’s office.

The new schedule works well. Martin gets to sleep long before the others file in to begin their days, he doesn’t have to deal with Tim’s attitude or Sasha’s brisk efficiency, and he wakes as they’re heading home. All but Jon, anyway, who is still staying later and later every night. Some days he doesn’t head out until after midnight and Martin worries he’s working himself too hard. Martin knows it’s useless to worry over Jon but tells himself defensively that if he doesn’t, no one will, and carries on doing it.

The past few days have taken their toll and he’s been playing back Jon’s most recent recordings in the mornings as he brings himself off. Hearing Jon’s voice is just another way to wrap himself in the feel of Jon and, regardless of however dark or creepy the subject matter, Jon’s voice on the tapes gets inside him to smooth all of his frazzled edges in a way that daytime Jon doesn’t.

He longs to hear Jon say the things he imagines him saying. Every time he sits in this chair, pretending he’s in Jon’s lap, his mind supplying Jon with plenty of filthy things to say as he jerks Martin’s cock, as Martin squirms and begs, as Jon finally impales Martin on his cock, hands hard and bruising on his hips to hold him still.

The idea, when it comes, makes perfect sense. He can record himself, in his best impression of Jon, saying the things. He does it. It’s nearly perfect. The only way it could be better would be it if were actually Jon saying the things and Martin knows that will never happen. He’s always very careful to reset the tape and the recorder when he’s finished, it’s part of his clean up ritual now.

* * *

One morning, after an especially trying night of dead ends and disconnected numbers, he stumbles sleepily down the hall after his shower, still a bit damp because he just couldn’t be bothered to towel himself off all the way. He opens Jon’s door and stops dead, struck dumb by the sight of Jon, sitting in his chair, eyes coming up to meet Martin’s in surprise and no little disgust.

“Martin? Good lord, man, if you're going to be staying in the Archives, at least have the decency to put some trousers on.”

Martin can feel his face flame. “Oh God, sorry! Sorry, I didn't think you were in until later. It's not even seven yet.” It’s stupid, he _knows_ it’s stupid, to point out the hour, as though it’s perfectly normal for Martin to be in Jon’s office without trousers, as though Jon is the one in the wrong.

Jon levels him with a flat stare. “I’ve been coming in early in the hopes of leaving this place before dark.”

Martin swallows, tries to come up with something, anything, to say. “Well, it’s been a week and we’ve seen nothing. D’you really think she’s still out there?” It sounds inane, even to him, and he can almost feel Jon rolling his eyes, though his tone remains flat.

“I have no idea, but I don’t intend to take any chances.”

“No, I,” Martin sighs, “I suppose not.”

Jon looks back down at the statement in front of him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Righto.” He feels his face heat. Seriously, righto? Oh God. He wishes the floor would open beneath his feet and swallow him but, as far as he knows, the Institute, unlike the things they research here, has no such paranormal abilities.

Jon looks up at him, his brow furrowed, and Martin flees.

He gets back to the bedroom and tries to get his breathing under control. It’s inevitable that Jon will demand an explanation and Martin wants to be ready to face him, likely any minute now, and Martin is most certainly _not_ ready. 

He creates, and discards, any number of reasons for what he was doing. None of them make any sense and he runs his hands through his hair, tugging and trying not to think about his fantasy where it’s Jon pulling his hair. This is bad. If he can’t keep his mind focused in a crisis like this, he’s let things go too far. He swears to himself that he’ll put an end to it, find another way to get to sleep, and that promise allows him to catch his breath.

He’s alright, it’s alright. Yes, things got out of hand and, yes, he should have put a stop to it ages ago, but he’s in control now and he’s going to fix this. He’ll apologise and say something about being confused on his way back from the shower, since he hasn’t been sleeping.

When Tim comes to get him an hour later, he’s dressed and as ready as he can make himself, hands only shaking a little. Tim takes him to Jon’s office and leaves him at the door with a small smirk, the bastard’s probably sure that Martin is on his way out.

Jon doesn’t look up when Martin enters. He’s rewinding the tape he’d been working on and simply waves Martin inside. He stands in front of Jon’s desk, trying not to shuffle his feet or wring his hands or give any outward display of discomfort.

_“the moon shines down, it casts everything into the most ghostly shades”_

Martin shudders at the image as Jon makes an annoyed noise and stops the tape, then hits the rewind button again.

“Sorry, Martin, just a moment,” Jon says, distracted, without looking up. Martin counts his breaths in and out, willing himself to stay calm.

When Jon presses play again it takes Martin a moment to realise what he is hearing. It’s his own voice, well, his voice disguised as Jon’s, saying “I don’t know, Martin, have you earned that? Have you done your,” a pause, heavy breathing, “due diligence?”

Martin can feel his eyes widen as he swallows. Almost without conscious thought, he leaps across the desk, reaching for the button to stop the player. He smashes it so hard a piece of his nail chips off. As he goes to pull his hand back, Jon’s clamps down around his wrist, locking him in place. Martin can’t seem to catch his breath and heat is surging through his whole body, both at the strength of Jon’s grip and his absolute mortification.

“Martin,” Jon says, voice quiet and hard. “What was that?”

Martin can’t speak. This can’t be happening; he’s been _so_ careful. He’s sure he’s deleted every recording ... and yet he can’t deny that’s his voice on the tape.

He opens his mouth to try to explain and nothing comes out. Rather than gawp like a fish, he closes his mouth again, eyes locked on Jon’s hand where it’s still touching him. His hold is tight, nearly painful, but it’s still more touch than Martin has ever had from Jon. He closes his eyes and wills his erection away. It doesn’t pay him any heed.

Jon uses his free hand to press the play button and Martin feels another wave of heat burn through him, this one leaving him chilled and shivering.

“You know the rules, Martin,” he hears himself say in his Jon voice. Martin’s eyes are wide, darting between Jon and the player as the recording continues. “You don’t get to come until I’m satisfied that you’ve done your best.”

Jon presses stop again. He still hasn’t looked at Martin and Martin is pretty sure that he’s sacked, that even if he’s not, he’ll have to leave, Jane Prentiss and parasitic worms or not. He can’t stay here now that Jon knows, oh God, Jon _knows_.

He tries to tug his wrist free of Jon’s grip but Jon’s fingers only clench tighter as he finally looks up into Martin’s eyes. Martin is dizzy for a moment at what he sees there, the scorching heat of Jon’s gaze burns into him and he stops shivering, warmed through by the hope that dares to flare in response.

“Is that what you want, Martin?” Jon asks, voice barely above a whisper and Martin can’t believe he ever thought he could capture the rich timbre, the deep essence of that voice.

He swallows and nods, not breaking eye contact. 

In a flash, Jon has yanked him across the desk and pulled Martin into his lap. Martin flails for a moment, his shoulder feels pulled nearly out of its socket, his knees smarting, his breath heaving. Jon’s free hand is already working the button and then the zipper of Martin’s trousers. He shoves Martin’s trousers and boxers roughly down. The hand holding Martin’s wrist is curled against Martin’s chest, his grip unrelenting. 

Martin can feel Jon’s erection under his now-exposed ass, his breath is coming in pants, sweat is dripping down the side of his face and this is so much more than he’d ever imagined. In all the times he’d played this fantasy out in his head, he’d somehow never accounted for Jon’s intensity. He’d known Jon’s hand on his cock would be tight to the point of cruelty but, even though he’d attempted to match that, he’s never come anywhere close to the feel of it. It hurts and yet he can’t help but thrust up into that punishing compression.

“Do you like that, Martin?” Jon’s voice rumbles in his ear.

“Yes!” Martin gasps out. “Yes! Oh God, Jon, _please_.” He’s so close, a few more strokes and he’ll spill all over Jon’s desk and, this time, all over Jon’s hand as well.

As though Jon can sense how close he is, the grip around Martin’s cock suddenly slackens. 

“Wha-” he begins to ask when Jon cuts him off.

“That’s not what you really want, though, is it, Martin?” Jon asks and for a moment, Martin is confused, dazzled by the feel of Jon’s breath against his neck.

He nods, shakily. “It is,” he manages.

Jon chuckles behind him. “Don’t lie to me, Martin. You won’t appreciate the consequences. We both know you don’t want to come until you’ve earned it, isn’t that right? Until you’ve done your, what was it?” Jon pauses and Martin can’t breathe, “your due diligence.”

Martin’s body jerks at the words, as a current of electricity zips around inside him, lighting him up. He quivers as Jon stands, shoving Martin off his lap and down, still holding his wrist so that Martin ends up sprawled against Jon’s legs on the floor. Jon’s free hand opens his trousers and pulls out his own cock, thick and bobbing its head at Martin, as angry and demanding as Jon himself. A bead of pre-come is glistening at the tip and Martin surges forward to lick it, wrapping his lips around Jon’s cock and closing his eyes with an ecstatic shudder.

He gets himself on his knees, it’s a challenge to arrange himself with only one hand at his disposal, as Jon still hasn’t released his wrist, but he does it. Jon’s free hand wraps itself in Martin’s hair as Jon begins to roughly fuck his face, thrusting his cock in hard and fast.

It’s on the verge of too much, Martin is choking and gagging, tears and snot joining the saliva dripping down his chin. Jon slows his pace a bit, tells Martin to relax his throat, to let Jon in, and as soon as he does, Jon is ravaging his mouth again. This time Martin finds a rhythm that lets him breathe, more or less, and he swallows around Jon’s cock with every deep thrust.

“That’s right, Martin,” Jon says, his voice still hard and yet it somehow carries the hint of a purr, “take this for me. Be a good little hole for me, Martin, is that what you want?”

Martin moans desperately around Jon’s cock. It is. It’s all he wants, to be good for Jon, to be whatever Jon needs him to be.

In a few more thrusts, Jon comes down Martin’s throat with a grunt and Martin greedily swallows down every drop. Jon’s hold on his hair loosens, his hips slow, and Martin does his utmost to clean every inch of Jon’s cock, the flicks of his tongue getting softer as Jon becomes more sensitive, until finally Jon gently pushes him back onto his knees.

He tugs at Martin’s wrist and Martin finds himself once more in Jon’s lap, surrounded by him, as Jon’s free hand returns to Martin’s cock. The barest touch is enough to set Martin off and his orgasm whites out his senses as he spills over Jon’s hand.

When he comes back to himself, Jon is kissing the back of his neck and has finally relinquished Martin’s wrist in order to trace his thumb soothingly across the bruises that are already rising to the surface of the skin there. Martin is breathing heavily, gulping for air, and Jon is interspersing mumbles of soft words with his kisses.

He turns his head, just enough to capture Jon’s lips with his own. Jon tolerates it for a moment as Martin kisses him gently, tentatively, then pulls back. He scans Martins face and, satisfied with whatever he sees there, says brusquely, “Thank you, Martin. That was excellent.” He nudges Martin off his lap. “That will be all.”

Martin is confused, uncertain of what is happening. He pulls up his boxers, then his trousers, and does his best to set himself to rights, then turns to look at Jon, who is already busily straightening his desk.

“Jon?” He asks.

Jon glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Did you need something further, Martin?”

Martin shakes his head. He looks down at the bruises on his wrist, needing some kind of confirmation that this really happened, then looks back up at Jon. He feels lost and something on his face must give that away as Jon’s expression softens ever so slightly.

“You should get some rest, Martin,” Jon says. “If you would like to continue to be of use,” he pauses, swallows, and Martin doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Jon discomfited before, “that is to say, of use to _me_, I expect to find you in my bed at the end of the day. Is that clear?”

Martin blinks at him in surprise until he sees Jon very slowly, very deliberately, wink. His smile bursts across his face and he nods. “Yes, sir. Of course. Anything you need, sir.” He floats giddily down the hallway to his temporary bedroom, wondering just what use Jon will make of him, later.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Due Diligence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896333) by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies)


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